


That's... Pretty Intimidating

by AspiratingAnxiety



Category: DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Batfamily, DC is an unholy clusterfuck, F/M, Multi, So... I choose to live in the land of headcanon, bite my ass
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2019-05-24
Packaged: 2019-09-14 00:13:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16902408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AspiratingAnxiety/pseuds/AspiratingAnxiety
Summary: Here's my collection of short works for Timmy! Within are all of my requests, headcanons, imagines, and oneshots for Tim Drake as they were published on my tumblr.





	1. He'll Never Know (Imagine Request)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Person A and Person B wandering around the school together to find places to do minor graffiti on" with Tim omg 💖  
> -anonymous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy to oblige~ 
> 
> So, this is high school. That means Timmy is still Robin. At least… that’s the way I’m writing it. He’s still enrolled, therefore, he is the Robin (not the Red Robin). 
> 
> I appreciate the ask, baby-cakes. Hope you like it! It’s fluff, even if it’s a bit bittersweet. 
> 
> Tag List: @nxttime, @possiblyelven, @sweetspiderboy, @thepuckishrogue, and @acetrainerjen (Ask to be added to my tag list through a message or by dropping the request into my inbox!)

“I just don’t get why.” 

“Seriously?” Tim scoffs, kicking over a pail of rocks and cigarette butts that had been serving as an outdoor ashtray to the senior class nigh on twenty years. “I don’t belong here. We both know that.” 

You pout, finishing up your hasty mural of Batman riding a chunky unicorn into battle. The streaky black ink stands out in brilliant contrast against the cinder block dividing wall separating the greenhouses from the back gates of Gotham Academy. Your canvas had not been generous, but your art was impeccable. 

“It’s high school, Tim.” You straighten out of a crouch, stretching your back and motioning for him to have a look at your newest masterpiece. “Nobody belongs here. Doesn’t mean you have to drop out.”

He tries to nail you with a serious look, but a chuckle escapes his mouth instead of whatever dismissive argument he was planning. He points at the haphazard, though readily identifiable, image of his adoptive father astride the heavily stylized mythical war-beast. “Bruce would love this.” 

“Defacement of school property?”

“A tamed unicorn.”

The gnawing ache in your stomach eases slightly with Tim’s jovial approval, and instead of wandering back toward the entrance to the big building, you settle down on the grass. Skipping another class isn’t the bother, you’re sure. AP history is nothing but A’s, and Dr. Bauer didn’t hold the occasional absence against you. All the same, a burning sensation laps at the back of your throat.You feel sick, and you’re not sure if it’s going to result in vomit or tears. 

Maybe both. 

Tim drops his weight down beside you with an  _oof!_ He can see that the mild brush of humor in reference to the unicorn didn’t lift your spirits much. This was the hardest part of his decision to withdrawal. 

Not Dick’s teasing. Not Alfred’s judgement. Not even Bruce’s disapproval.

This. 

Sitting here, beside you. Knowing that it’s a decision  _he_ made causing you heartache.

“It’s not that big of a deal. I have access to all the funds I need for my company’s startup. I can test into a college later on if I feel like it, even if I have to file for a GED or whatever. Everything is going to be fine.”

“Of course it is, Tim,” you say. “Everything is always fine.”

You offer him a sad smile, and the strain of the false expression is clear. It looks as though each corner of your mouth has a 50 pound weight attached, and your eyes are as dull and listless as they’d been the moment he told you this was his last day. He swallows the nervous rush of things that race to come out of his mouth. He doesn’t know what else to do, but offering reassurances about his future clearly isn’t the ticket. If anything, he’d swear he just made things worse…

Looking away from you, veritably adrift in confusion, Tim sighs. 

You allow some uncomfortable silence to pass. It takes a few minutes for you to beat the anxiety and bile back down your throat. “Tim,” you begin.

“Yes?” He’s on you in a millisecond, overjoyed for the light at the end of the tunnel. You’d think he was getting the silent treatment for a week, the relief he sends your way.

You smile again, soft with sad this time. Not so tense. 

He’s most endearing so eager like that, and you remind yourself that it is okay to ask for his time. You are not encroaching. You are not burdensome. 

You have to ask him or he’ll never know.

“Tim, the only time we see each other is at school. I know that being Robin is important, and I agree. It is. But…how are- I mean when?” 

Your words go all jumbled, and it takes lots of deep breaths to gather your thoughts again. Mercifully, Tim manages to contain the interruption you can feel boiling on his tongue. Not even when you close your eyes because looking away from him isn’t enough.

“You don’t make time for some of your own basic needs, Tim. Let’s be real: without Alfred, you and Bruce would both starve. You leaving school? It just feels like, and I swear I’m not trying to be dramatic, it feels like I’m never going to see you again. Ya’ know? As it is, I’ve skipped my art class six times this quarter so that I could spend time with you during your free period-”

“I thought you had study hall at the same time!” 

“Tim,” you look back at him with so much dry disdain that it could lower the sea level. “You’re a genius, remember? What year do you have to be for a study hall before lunch?”

His face puckers. “You told me you had the same free period as I did.”

“And you believed me.” You wave off his mounting irritation. “We’re both at fault.” 

“That’s  _not_ how lying works.”

“I’m trying to share here, Timmy. I’m opening up. I’m feeling very vulnerable. Please let me finish before we derail into another lecture about honesty.”

“What’s the point? The other lectures obviously made zero impact. Also, you’re being dumb. I don’t need school to schedule you into my life. School inhibits me from spending time with you, actually.”

You blink, unconvinced, vaguely offended, and wholly curious. “Go on…”

He prefaces, “I’m not trying to be mean, or insensitive, or whatever. You’re not dumb for being upset. I just wish I’d known that  _that’s_ what you were upset about before!” 

Tim maneuvers closer to you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you into his side. His stress completely evaporates, and he proceeds to spend the rest of the morning and into your lunch hour explaining all of the ways that being free of the restrictive school schedule will allow him significantly more time with you.

In fact, he promises you his whole attention from the time school lets out to 8 o’clock at night every Tuesday and Thursday evening, so long as you start attending art class. 

The world needs artists who are brave enough to draw Batman on a chibi unicorn, after all.        


	2. Christmas Dinner Part I (Imagine Request)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> you might be able to tell but i've been scrolling through your prompt lists and sending a few requests lmao so heres another one: “I’ll give you fifty bucks if I can take you to Christmas dinner and tell my family we’re together. They always ask if I’m dating and I can’t have that conversation again.” with Tim Drake and his long suffering bestie lol thanks babe! you're quite possibly my favourite DC/batboys writer  
> -anonymous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been so excited to write this prompt! It took me a couple of days to get it just right, but I’m finally pleased. This is only Part I. I have Part II published here.
> 
> So, I don’t know if you’ve all noticed, but I tend to flesh out any of my reader characters as OCs. I have a very distinct image of them in my mind, and I like to do my best to portray that image in a neutral, easily overlooked or converted way. At least insomuch as the physical appearance of the character…
> 
> I say that because this one is a little more specific. Basically, I point out in this fic that she’s small-breasted. I tend to avoid eye and hair color, skin color, sometimes length of hair, and (for the most part) weight. This time I just felt like being more descriptive of the physicality I attached to this reader-character in my mind.
> 
> I do not mean to be exclusive or to put off any people reading this by alienating their body from the reader-character. Sometimes though, I imagine, it’s nice for the girls who are less than a handful to get some representation as having an attractive chest. 
> 
> I hope you like it, sweetheart. Let me know.

The essay in front of you has already eaten up four hours of your day, and the MLA citations are still worlds away from acceptable. Cutting your teeth on seventh edition through your AP classes in private school, it’s just your fucking luck that Gotham University chose the second semester of your freshman year to require the whole English department to transition into the eighth edition. Of course, the English chairman enforcing this strict new standard to the additional classwork you were doing as an intern over winter break is a disheartening kick to the lady-balls all on its own…

However, you thrive on onerous academic requirements, and so willingly sacrifice your first true day of winter vacation (two weeks after the rest of the student body) in order to promptly submit a research account of the trial adolescent literature course that you sped through in exchange for a couple of credit hours on the sly. 

Electronica and indie-pop beat through your headset at an ear-splitting decibel, and so you do not hear the twenty or so odd texts that set your phone pinging. Neither do you hear when Tim buzzes incessantly at your apartment’s call box until, finally, some merciful mother with an arm full of groceries and three rosy-cheeked kids crammed into a double stroller allows him to enter the building in order to escape the bitter Gotham cold. He doesn’t bother to knock at your door, having deduced that you are either in the shower or obliterating your eardrums. 

After discretely picking your lock, he meanders through your place and back into your bedroom. That’s where your desktop is set up. Cringing, he realizes that he can hear the ghosts of music spilling out of your headphones all the way in the hall.

Tim leans against the door jamb when he sees you, averting his eyes as an embarrassing rush of warmth runs through him. In spite of the stupidly low temperature on your thermostat, you sit in a pair of thin pajama shorts and a cotton tank top that matches the color of the snowflakes dotting your bottoms. Your legs are curled up into the plush office chair, feet tucked beneath your knees as your hips and shoulders roll subtly to the upbeat music. Your head bobs along with the tempo, and your lips silently shape the lyrics. 

It is a particularly mighty effort to look away from your lips. 

Tim’s disappointed in himself for the reaction, especially considering the trust that you extend to him as a platonic confidant and companion. He’s also shocked by it. His attraction to you very rarely overwhelms him, as the two of you had contextualized your friendship based upon the fact that both of you were in long-term relationships when you’d starting hanging out. 

In the beginning though, even while he was with Steph, every other word or look you sent his way made his pulse scramble. Your intelligence and humor were sources of delight, your smiles were easy and kind, and Tim had found that the bulkiest jackets or frumpiest pajamas didn’t keep him from eyeing whatever he could make out of your frame.

These subconscious responses to your company were viciously quashed in order to safely pursue your friendship while being respectful of his commitment to Stephanie. They had remained largely dormant for the five glorious years of friendship shared between you. 

He successfully did not outwardly express any sense of attraction, and you certainly didn’t. 

Tim glances over the messy stacks of desecrated paperbacks littering the surface of your desk, messily pouring onto the floor beside you. He needs to gather his thoughts and pluck up the courage to pursue the agenda of his visit. It takes longer than it should, and he quietly admits to himself that the context of his coming request as well as your shared status of being newly single has perhaps dredged up his baser inclinations toward you.

Your pale shirt, ice cold home, and pert little breasts don’t exactly help the situation either. 

Once sufficiently curtailed, he attempts to gently alert you to his presence by swiping the book you’ve tented over the arm of your chair. You jump, swearing loudly and ripping your headset off as though prepared to use it as a weapon. He grins down at you, shamefully amused by the utter betrayal on your face. 

“Oh my God, Tim! What is wrong with you? Are you trying to kill me?” 

“What’s wrong with me?” He tosses the novel down on your desk and flicks the earloop of your bulky, noise-cancelling setup. “What’s wrong with you? At this rate, you’ll need cochlear implants by thirty.”

“Dude, so not the point,” you say, huffing. “We talked about picking my lock. Namely: stop friggin’ doing it.” 

Immediately self-conscious, you cross your arms over your chest and glare up at him like a cat in a bathtub. You curse yourself for not taking the time to change out of your PJs before delving into your hefty schoolwork. 

He scoffs at you, a playful sound. “Oh, settle down. I’ve been trying to text you all morning. I waited outside in the freezing cold buzzing your apartment for like, five whole minutes before some lady took pity on me and I stooped to picking the lock.” 

“Oh, five whole minutes,” you mock him, still a bit grumpy and angling past him on stiff legs to get into your closet. 

He gives another satisfied, dismissive sound; clearly quite tickled to have given you such a startle. “I would have waited for you to respond,” he calls through the closed door. “But I have a super important favor to ask you.”

Your knee-jerk irritation fizzles as a swell of happiness accompanies the realization that one of your best friends has come to pay you a visit, and you acknowledge the likelihood that he had tried to politely gain entrance to your home multiple ways before disregarding your request. While you’re at it, you dismantle the initial embarrassment you felt, remembering the handful of times that Tim has seen you in similar sets of clothing as well as the utter lack of notice he paid to your body during those encounters. 

You dress sloppily, tugging up some jeans and throwing a sweatshirt over your tank top without bothering to add or exchange any undergarments. Emerging from your closet, you find that Tim has flopped onto your bed, not bothering to fix the sheets or comforter before settling in. 

“I’m just gonna’ cut to the chase,” he says, looking bleak. 

You nod, sitting back down in your computer chair and swiveling to face him. “Go for it.”

“I’ll give you fifty bucks if I can take you to Christmas dinner and tell my family we’re together. Since Steph and I broke up, they’re always asking if I’m dating again yet, and I just cannot have that conversation over Christmas dinner. I can’t.” 

You rock back in your chair until you press against the cushioned panel behind you. There are a few beats of silence. Tim is squirming, red-faced, and progressively more uncomfortable as your wordless stare continues. 

“Fifty bucks?” you ask, feigning offense. “You think you can buy an evening of my company for fifty American dollars?”

“Uh,” he fumbles, glancing around your bedroom and avoiding your ornery eye contact. “I was honestly hoping that you’d go with me and lie to my family for free because you are a good and benevolent friend?” 

“Ha!” You slam yourself forward and slap your knee. “Timmy-boy, you’re lying to the both of us with that one.” If he could hold your stare for more than a nanosecond, you’re sure he’d see that you’re playing. “There’s no way I’m going anywhere with you for less than $2500.” 

He finally looks you in the eye long enough to appear genuinely heartbroken, and it pulls the rug right out from under your fun. You go breathless at the sight of his hurt, and fill your lungs to recant all of the teasing. 

Before you get the chance, he ups the ante. His face goes determined, and he lifts his pelvis to snag the wallet out of his back pocket. The movement and subsequent rearrangement of his clothing distract you from clearing the air. He peeled off his coat while you were putting on some pants. The hem of his long-sleeved t-shirt creeps up when he arches his back and reaches beneath himself. You zero in on the wildly pale strip of skin that spreads over the crests of his hips and lower tummy. It’s taught over his intense, wiry musculature with a sparse stripe of dark hair that’s gathered in a trail leading steadily down beneath his fly.

You don’t know what to do with yourself. It’s been years, literally years, since you found yourself thinking such direct thoughts about Tim’s physicality. Mostly, you’d resented his ludicrous level of fitness and the irritating way that your hormone-Chernobyl of a teenage body had obsessed over it. Learning that he was Robin had mostly cleared it up for you. He wasn’t some closet ‘roid case sniffing around for compliments to his masculinity. His body served a brutal purpose, and you did your very best to no longer begrudge or objectify him. 

Though, God help you, he’s so pretty it’s just impossible to contain all of the thirst. 

A sleek black card is waving in front of your face and Tim is sitting upright when you blink back into the conversation. 

You stare at his irritated expression. “Huh?” 

“I said that you can take my credit card and pick out everything that you want to wear that evening. You can keep it, and I’ll pay for it. The dress, the shoes, the jewelry. If you want to get your hair professionally done or hire somebody to do your makeup, I’ll pay for that too. Deal?” 

You glance between the plastic he’s offering you and the hardened look on his face. “Tim,” you say with consolation in your tone. “You don’t have to pay for anything. I’ll go with you to Christmas dinner and lie to your family for free. I was joking. I swear.”

You push the hand holding the credit card down against your mattress, effectively removing it from the conversation.

“You’ve gotta’ admit,” you say, grinning. “The way you propositioned me made it sound like you were haggling down the price of a shady Craigslist ad.” 

He seems appeased, though lost in thought. You leave your hand on top of his, and you wonder, somewhat ashamed, if you missed anything else that he said while you were drooling.

His hand is still icy, and so you rub halfheartedly from his wrist to his fingers hoping some of the warmth in your palm will sink into his suspiciously soft skin. 

“I appreciate the sentiment,” he offers you a shy smile, and your heart flutters. “But you should really take me up on this one. There’s a gala we’ll have to attend afterward. It’s been tradition for a few years now. We have an early Christmas dinner in event attire. Then, as a family, we attend the charity gala that the Wayne Foundation puts on to raise money for making sure families all over Gotham have their utilities, a good dinner, and some presents on actual Christmas.”

“I know, Tim. I’ve been to your family’s Christmas party twice.” 

“Yeah, but not as a member of the family. If you go with me, the pre-dinner is mandatory, and we’re going to be plastered all over gossip sites and crappy magazines for weeks. Not to mention, I need you to convince a room full of incredibly intelligent detectives that have known both of us for years that we are there romantically, not platonically. Anything else, and my torment at the hands of Dick and Jason will never end.”

You pull some air through your teeth, retracting your hand and lounging in your chair again. “Well…” you shoot your friend a smirk. “I do love a good challenge.”


	3. Christmas Dinner Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The much awaited final chapter of the Christmas dinner prompt! This is pure fluff with a delectable finish, if I do say so myself. 
> 
> I am so sorry that I had to repeatedly bump back the post date for this piece. You guys were so excited for it, and I swear that I got it to you as soon as I could. I’ve had a couple of weeks with a new job and some stuff that needed to get done around the house for the change in season. 
> 
> As always, I am grateful for your patience, and I would love to know what you think of my work!
> 
> (Side note: If you want to be added to a taglist, let me know. I don’t really have one yet, only a small one for Part II of the Ballerina/Dick fic. Not really sure if anyone is interested. Drop me an ask or message me if you’d like to be tagged in my work, and please specify if there are certain triggers that you’d like not to be tagged in.)

“Just make sure to act… ya’ know…. natural. Like we willingly spend time with one another romantically. Also please, please do not take Jason’s bait. He’s always an especially bitter pill during these parties. I don’t know why. It’s just like, one of his things. One of his many things. Oh! And remember-”

“Christ on a bicycle, Tim!” you interrupt him, patience completely evaporated. “I know how to be a girlfriend. I’ve been in more relationships for an amount of time that totals longer than your go with Stephanie. I know all the weird quirks with your family, even Jason. I understand what jokes not to make. All of my major etiquette lessons were from Alfred himself, and I don’t drink. Won’t make a habit of it in front of Bruce as an underage date to the only son functioning as a public figure for Wayne Enterprises. I get it. I know. Chill the fuck out and get off my back, or I’m going to punch you in your bird throat.” 

Usually, you do not threaten violence to anyone, especially people as kindhearted as Tim. Jesus God though, 45 minutes of his frantic dictation about your expected behaviors and you’re ready to strip off your bribery gown, roll out of the moving car buck-ass naked, and hoof it back to your apartment in the snow.

You have enough anxiety of your own, poured into a buh-jillion dollar dress that was made to push your boobs up to your chin and mold your butt into some kind of evergreen-colored peach. You can barely walk in your shoes, you’re wearing jewelry that cost more than your education, you are terrified that Damian might mistake your fake fur for the real thing and try to murder you on the spot, and the flower crown braided to your head is made of poky pine twigs, baby pine cones, and glittery sugared berries that are all working together to make your scalp itch worse than the week and a half you spent fighting a colony of lice in the fourth grade.

Fucking Lacey Whitaker and her four-feet of infested hair… 

In short, you want to die and you haven’t even tried to lie to Batman yet. 

“Wow.” Tim blinks, mouth scrunched into an unimpressed line. 

You sigh, hanging your head. “Tim, I am not going to punch you. That would be unkind and, frankly, a stupid move on my part.” You shake your head. “Not a fight I can win.” 

“I’m honestly less offended by the punching and more hung up on the bird throat comment.”

You cut your eyes at him, incredulous. “Yeah, well, that scarf isn’t exactly doing you favors.” 

He balks, jaw falling open. “Okay, first: you must be going blind. Francisco hand delivered all of the accent notes for my attire, including this scarf, so that I would match your dress. The one that you picked. The one that is on your body this very minute, if you would recall. The botanical embroidery is even consistent. So, yeah.” He motions to the fitted portion of the gown that can be seen hugging your thighs below the hem of your fluffy false fur coat. “Second observation: you are hella’ mean when you have The Anxiety, and I did not intend to fan that flame.” 

“Well, you’re hella’ bossy when you get nervous. Not a great combination to be crammed in a sports car together.”

“Noted,” he says, pulling the scarf looser.

The rest of the drive is somewhat tense as you both deeply question your life choices and rehearse the practiced cover story about first dates and whatnot. The sidewalk that leads to the main entrance of Wayne Manor is mercifully devoid of ice, having been flawlessly scraped and salted ahead of time. Alfred greets the two of you with a broad smile and ushers you into the bright, impeccably decorated foyer. 

“Happy Christmas,” he says, looking down at you in his warm, if distant, way. “Aren’t you a sight, Miss?” 

You acknowledge the compliment as Alfred hangs Tim’s coat and scarf, ducking your head in an awkward cross between a nod and a bow, frantically trying to peel the fur coat away from you before Damian gets a look at it. 

It is then that Tim sees the bodice of your dress for the first time. He stares, too struck by the full effect of the incredibly intricate, fitted garment to be ashamed that he is staring. The gown envelops you tightly from your bust to just below your hips, flowing seamlessly into rounded pool of silken fabric at the floor. Delicate lacework that echos the embroidery running throughout the piece act as wide, gossamer straps that tip over your shoulders and dive into what the cut of the dress would indicate to be a deep hemline baring a good portion of your back. With the high notes of red in your wreath, on your shoes, and staining your pretty, pretty lips, it’s hard for Tim to decide if the incredibly flattering silhouette created by your gown is more provocative than the contrasting, complimentary colors of forest green and holly-berry red that work to draw eyes up and down your body, then back up again… and down…. and up.

It is Alfred’s voice, chastising him, that breaks Tim out of his awed silence. “Take her coat and put your tongue back in your mouth immediately, Master Timothy.”

“Right!” he says, closing his eyes with a nod and stepping toward you. And again quietly, he almost sighs, “Right.” 

You hand him the fur, somewhat confused. Meeting his eye, you attempt to convey a look that asks whether or not he’s begun acting. After all, it’s only Alfred, and you both knew that there was zero hope of convincing the brilliant Englishman from the get. Tim was relying on the gentleman’s steadfast discretion to allow him this Christmas of peace from his brothers. 

Your initial reaction to Tim’s obvious admiration isn’t playful banter or a controlled taunt, as rehearsed. Rather, you are overwhelmingly flattered and suddenly battling an absolute tidal wave of uncharacteristic bashfulness. Heat burns in your cheeks from more than the rush of blood brought up by the warm house as you pass off your coat. Tim seems genuinely embarrassed too, as he avoids touching your hands and keeps his body far from you, using the full length of an outstretched arm to snag the outerwear. The left side of his face is crumpled in an apologetic wince, and the expression cuts clean through you. The bubble of your sheer delight implodes into a million little radiant drops as you try to decide whether or not the wince means he regrets having found you an attractive sight. 

That is not how boyfriends who enjoy your dress behave. Tim’s presenting a friend reaction, a friend who is afraid of having objectified or offended you. You steel yourself against the rush of anxiety that previously dimmed your flattered reaction and accept that you are gonna’ have to hem this tattered patchwork of a plan all by your lonesome if it’s going to be believable.

The Red Robin’s body language indicates that he’s all but thrown in the towel here at the door. 

And so, you take a deep breath, unfolding the neat, tidy little booklet of repressed feelings that you’ve been harboring in the pockets of your heart since you were 15, and you let yourself smile at him.

Really smile. The way you do when his back is turned. When his woefully dedicated or unimaginably funny words are in text. When you know it’s safe and no one will see the way that you smile for Tim. 

Your lips curve up a bit wry, teasing but encouraging. Teeth flash, a porcelain sign advertising your giddy joy and the silly sense of eagerness you allow yourself to feel, all-too-easily engaging the fantasy that this is a real date. Your shoulders half-shrug, and you catch the perfectly manicured nail of your ring finger between the knuckles of the opposite third and fourth fingers, running the corner of your thumbnail beneath it. The gesture is a nervous, fiddling one that communicates that damnably predominant shyness creeping up again.

You keep his eyes too, pegging him with an expression that communicates all of the softness and the intensity that you’ve been fighting to hide for so long. 

Tim goes stone still, like he’s been struck by lightening and his brain decided to exist stage left for intermission. He stares at you, staring at him like he’s answered some kind of prayer by grabbing your coat. 

For a brief, breathless moment, he feels like Gods must.

He’s dizzy with the sensation. It echos from his temples through his skull, then all the way down to every toe. A reverberation of unmitigated glory as delivered by the expression of someone he loves.

Nobody has ever looked at him that way. 

Not even right after he saves their life.

“Heavens,” Alfred mumbles behind him, a shared note of awe in his voice. 

Tim jerks, having completely forgotten where he was, why he’d be there, or that other humans who weren’t you existed at all.

The older gentleman relieves Tim of the coat, casting a prideful, knowing look over the much younger man. “I’ll just take that. Everyone is socializing in the parlor. Go on to the party, and I will call when the dinner preparations are in order.”

Tim, grateful that Alfred habitually motioned both of you toward the heavy mahogany doors that lead into the front sitting room, realizes that he somehow lost all memory of the manor’s blueprint. He also cannot recall the name of Damian’s dog.

“Well,” you say, waiting until Alfred bustles away before leaning toward him with a much more contained smile. You nod toward the parlor, a curl falling from its place pinned to your crown. 

“Uh,” Tim delays, closing his eyes and giving his head a quick shake. He dares to step closer to you and carefully brushes at the strand of loose hair. “Actually, do you think it would be okay if… um…. well, I was wondering if you’d like the plan being that this-” he motions between the two of you. “This was less for pretend and more for real?”

He speaks so quietly that you are straining to hear him. Beyond that, what you can make out of his words seem to imply a notion that has your heart hammering so hard that it isn’t leaving any room for your lungs to expand.

You get closer and whisper more distinctly. “More real how?”

“Like, real real.”

“You are not helping me understand, Tim,” you hiss, feeling rather vulnerable and unsure.

He grins haltingly, schooling his features into a gentler expression before balancing your chin on his thumb and forefinger. Tim tilts your face up, sure to keep gauging your reaction to his approach with inquisitive looks and plenty of pauses. Your eyes flutter shut after the tip of his nose presses into yours playfully, and he angles his head to brush past the bridge of your own nose and nuzzle into your cheek. 

Time stops again when you’re on the very cusp of kissing, lips together in a tickling brush with warm puffs of breath mingling between you. “Is this okay?” he asks, the press of his mouth to yours causing you to silently mirror the formation of his words. 

“Uh-huh,” you answer a susurrant hum, eyes still closed and oh so excited for a proper kiss.

“Ah, crap.” Jason’s voice booming out of the parlor behind you has both you and Tim jumping out of your skins. “That’s 60 bucks to Selina, guys! Turns out Timbo and Bo-peep are an item after all. They’re pawing at each other in the foyer like animals! Catwoman takes the pot.”


	4. Please Tell Me You Feel the Same? (Imagine Request)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> your writing is fab, youre fab, so ok lets do this: can i get 'please tell me you feel the same' with timmy boy please and thank you?  
> -anonymous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much, Anon. I have a few guesses at your identity by this point, and I really wish you’d shoot me a message and let me know for sure! I honestly feel like we’re soulmates on some level, and I want to talk with you about some of these prompts more before pursuing them!
> 
> More fluff, another shortie that’s sweet, and my gratitude to every single person who reads this.
> 
> Taglist: @nxttime, @possiblyelven, and @sweetspiderboy

 

You’re just staring at him. 

Blankly. 

Like he’s spoken in a language you don’t know.  

He can’t believe he’s done this. This was so  _stupid_. He never should have listened to Dick. 

He’s not Dick, for Christ’s sake! He can’t sashay or pop off flirtatious, witty compliments like it’s his favorite hobby. He’s no Bruce, with a charming public demeanor and an early propensity for politely manipulating situations to his desired outcome. He’s not even  _Jason_ , who drawls and smirks his way into the hearts of attractive blondes all over Gotham City. 

He’s Tim. Plain ol’ Tim who makes a great friend, but knows nothing about channeling all of that social chemistry into something with romantic connotations without seeming creepy or overly invested. There is a necessary sense of nonchalance that he never can seem to suss out. A way to distribute the pressures of romantic pursuit in order to execute a casual approach that he just can’t find!  

But casual isn’t what he wants. Not with you. It never has been. You were the first after Steph. The first person who brought him easy laughter and a light, happy feeling with your proximity alone. Knowing that people like you live in Gotham makes him proud to be Robin. Well, Red Robin.

“You are precious and wholesome and so,  _so good_. To your bones, you’re good. In every way. You brighten everything you touch, and I admire so much about you outside of your beauty and kindness. You’re smart and funny. You didn’t even balk when you learned the truth about my family, you just offered to help with injuries or safe-housing or whatever you possibly could. You’re brave and strong and… and… everything! You’re just everything I could ever imagine wanting in someone and-”

Oh… oh god. 

He’s saying things out-loud. 

This is coming out of his mouth?

Oh, god. 

It’s Tim’s turn to gape, struck by an unexpected blow. The betrayal of his own mouth…

He closes his eyes, unable to look at your face as he quietly intones, “Please, please tell me that you feel the same way. If you don’t, we never have to talk about this again. I can even look into asking one of the Justice League members to wipe it from our memories! Strike it from the record, so to speak. No pressure. None.”

“Timmy,” you say in a breathy chuckle, rising from your computer chair and approaching his lurking form in your doorway. You go up a bit on your tippy-toes to press your foreheads together, ignoring his hopeful wince. “Tim, I have been horriblyin love with you since last fall when you took my sisters through the corn maze.”

All at once his face goes slack, and his eyes pop open, less than an inch from yours. “Last fall? You mean-”

“Yup.” You sneak in a sly peck, so quick he doesn’t have the chance to really react to the kiss. “I’ve been waiting and trying to decide, ya’ know, if you felt the same too…”     


	5. Bad Nights (Imagine Request)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> can I get uhhhhh #2 w/ tim Drake? :)  
> -anonymous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “Hey, hey, calm down. They can’t hurt you anymore.” 
> 
> So, I’m stoked to write this. I’ve been working on it for a while, and it’s gonna be a little bitty bit of hurt/comfort for Timbers. 
> 
> FYI: The reader character is Christian. Personally, I am not. I have nothing against Christianity or Paganism or anything, really. I’m not pushing a normative Christian agenda. The simple fact is that the OC who inspired this reader-character is a sweet little Catholic girl. That is all. (Think of the communication challenges, though. Like, Tim is 100% an Objectivist [fucking fight me and die mad about it, it’s my OPINION], and this darling little lover of Jesus is just trying to get him to meet her mom in church for one mass. ONE. She can’t confess her sins of the flesh until they’re married or they break up, ‘cuz if he’s there she’s jumping him again, okay? She can’t help it. He’s just so pretty. And sly. And he makes her laugh a lot. And-
> 
> And oh no… 
> 
> Timothy Drake might actually be Satan. 
> 
> Like, a little bit. Just a small piece of Satan.
> 
> Because she is SORELY tempted, and her thoughts haven’t stopped being impure, and he knows. He ALWAYS KNOWS when she’s thinking what she thinks about him. Long fic potential? I think so.)
> 
> Anyway, that ran away from me up there! Here’s my Tag List (Ask to be added!): @nxttime, @possiblyelven, @thepuckishrogue, @jinkies-its-a-writer, and @acetrainerjen (Boo, you out there? What did you change your URL to? I can’t find you, bean. I can’t. If you’re there, lovelywally, pls message me.)

Tim is a restless sleeper on good nights. Nights when his family is whole, and everyone he loves has tucked into a verified location with intense security and an arsenal of specialty weapons at their disposal. 

This is not going to be a good night.

You see it in the tight line of his shoulders and the waxy, sallow texture of his skin. He’s had too much stress and not enough sleep. No time to shower in the last few days and not to eat either, if you had to wager. After he slumps his overnight bag onto the entry table he just stands there, staring at the wall and repetitively clenching his fist. 

White knuckle tight, then tapered fingers over-extended until they start to bow toward the back of his hand. And again. 

And again. 

Tim doesn’t greet you, but you both know he’s aware of your presence. It takes you only a moment to decipher the indicators of his body language. He’s not angry, so Bruce hasn’t sent him away from the mission. 

He’s defeated.

Hurt. 

That means tonight is going to be much worse than if he’d been angry.

It’s not a good time to talk, and it won’t be. Not for a long while. Not unless the mission details become need-to-know, and your safety is dependent upon knowing. 

You go to him, bare feet beating the hardwood like an instrumental headed toward a crescendo. You throw your weight against his, so his arms have to come up.

So he has to catch you.

So he has to engage.

You tug him down, burrowing your face into his neck and ignoring the sour, stale body odor that you learned to associate with the combination of rubbers, leather, steel fiber, and Kevlar that make up his suit. It takes a minute, but soon his embrace is crushing. His breathing goes irregular, and you feel his tears pooling at the juncture of you neck and shoulder were he’s hidden his face. 

You know better than to try and pull away before he’s finished. Tim doesn’t like to let anyone see him lose control. Not Bruce, not his brothers, and certainly not you. It will only make things worse if you squirm to get a look or prod him for details, so you don’t. You patiently weather his quiet distress with disregard for the pain in your spine as you strain to keep balance for the both of you as well as the ache of his arms locked around your rib cage with too much strength. 

You also know better than to ask stupid things like _‘Is anyone hurt?’_  In Tim’s family, somebody’s always hurting. Usually on the inside  _and_ the outside. 

All the same, you’ve held onto one question for nights like this. When Tim’s silent breakdown has abated and his lungs stretch with deep inhalations, you dare to ask.

“Everyone is alive?” Your voice is too quiet to read entirely, but the threads of tentative hope that peep through the cover of your volume control are undeniable.

He nods against you, still shaking and hauling in full breaths like they’re gulps of cool water.

You tilt your face up, awash in sweet relief. “Thank God,” you say in earnest. 

The face of the father, grandfather, each brother, and every friend you’ve gained through your relationship with Tim flashes though your mind, and the tears you’ve just managed to restrain lick and burn behind your eyes like lemon in a wound. You habitually recite the adapted verse of a traditional prayer to your guardian angel, making sure to include thanks for protecting those dear to you and to Tim. It is an inaudible recitation, puffed toward the ceiling with all the tenderness of a kiss blown from your fingertips.

Still, Tim stiffens. You feel his hackles rising, and you rush to properly end the recitation before he interrupts. 

You fail. 

His incredulous bark of bitter laughter is a sound of disgust. It’s hot as a burning coal on your skin, where his tears still haven’t dried. He stands, releasing you and stepping backward out of your grasp as though he doesn’t yank you forward while your arms are still locked around him. 

His pain so easily becomes anger. His eyes, red-rimmed, have gone pale enough against the stark black of his widened pupil that they look to be made steel instead of blue. You flatten your hands against your tossing belly, anxious to have his sudden temper trained on you as a convenient target. He’s never hit you, and you know he’d never hurt you while he was himself. Not on purpose. 

It’s only that every man with Wayne in his name seems gifted with the ability to verbally eviscerate the people closest to them during outbursts…

“God-” he grates, spitting the word as though it’s vulgar. “-had nothing to do with it.”

Pressing your lips together and swallowing back nausea, you look away from your furious boyfriend. You remember this fight. You’ve had it before. You’re sure you’re going to have it again. 

 _How?_  Tim would demand.  _How can you see what I’ve seen, and know what I have to do for the people in this city, and still believe there’s a God? And Gotham’s just one place! There’s an entire **world**  of fucked up shit He should be navigating, and instead there’s me? There’s Bruce? There’s Dick, Jason, and fucking  **Damian**?_   

Whatever he’s seen tonight is bad. 

Horrible.

It’s the sort of thing that a cursory once-over of the case file would leave you brokenhearted for the whole of humanity and your breakfast wretched into the wastebasket. 

You do not want to fight. Not the same old fight that you’ve fought before. Not tonight, while Tim’s so wounded and bearing his teeth like a hungry, cornered stray.

“Please,” you whisper, taking trembling steps toward him with your eyes still closed and your head bowed. “Tim, please.”

He’s breathing hard again, but he doesn’t move away from you. He stays planted, even as you have your turn to lean tearfully against his shoulder. Somehow, mercifully, Tim manages to compartmentalize enough of tonight’s trauma to reinstate his control and avoid an unnecessarily hateful, vitriolic spew about the naivete and idealism of your religion.

“Let’s go shower,” you say, and he does. 

“Let’s eat something.” He does. 

“We should sleep.” 

He tries. 

You don’t bother. Tim needs the sleep more than you do, and nights like tonight? It’s near impossible to be unconscious beside him. 

He rolls and shouts. He yelps, broken cries like a kicked dog. He punches, and elbows, and bites at his own lips and the interior of his cheeks. You wake him a bit when it’s too much; when the neighbors send you a text complaining or a stray swing has landed a solid hit against you. 

You cradle his head in your lap to quiet him back down. You rake your nails through his hair and kiss every part of him you can reach. You tell him you love him, and that you’re both going to be okay. 

“Hush,” you say. “ _Shh-shh-shhhh_.”

Tim doesn’t try to hide when he’s caught between sleeping and awake. All of his carefully cultivated control and the facade of anger that springs into action to mask his hurt are absent. He’s weak like this, in spite all of his training and capabilities. His filter is gone, and he feverishly regurgitares the horrors thatbrought him howling to a semi-conscious state.

You would swear that every trauma is burrowed down into his mind, waiting patiently for an opportunity to strike anew. 

“ _Shh_ ,” you whisper to him, swallowing your own empathetic hurt and fatigue. “Calm down. They can’t hurt you anymore.” You brush back his shaggy bangs. “You’re safe. Nobody can hurt you anymore.”


	6. It's a Little Chilly- Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firefighter AU with Timbers based off of that one post. ‘Nuff said. 
> 
> This one is for you, @nxxttime. A gift, for your patience and encouragement. Oh! Also, it was your idea to write this one for Tim.
> 
> Also, also, I dunno why my Tim stuff always ends up being two parts long xD
> 
> This is an amalgamative AU that basically meshes together several timelines. Don’t come for me. I’m just trying to live my life.   
> 
> Tag List: @nxxttime , @possiblyelven , @thepuckishrogue , @jinkies-its-a-writer, @queeniepearls, and @sesquipedalian-aficionado (If you want to be tagged, let me know! For more fics, check out my masterlist.) 

 

When your adoptive father agrees that you’re allowed to drop out of high school to attend the company and pursue philanthropic work, he means more than charity auctions and fundraisers. 

He means more than vigilantism; which, in Tim’s humble opinion, constitutes the highest form of selfless humanitarianism. 

But, no.

No, no, no.  

When Bruce Wayne agrees to let you “slip through the cracks of the educational standard that Dick upheld,” he expects valiant volunteer work to be done under your civilian name. 

Your public name. 

Your ‘my child isn’t a dropout, he’s a genius  _and_ a hero’ name.

And so, Tim finds himself cartwheeling circles around the other late teens/early-twenty-somethings running through the volunteer firefighter cadet course. He allows copious photos to be taken, of course. He smiles brightly, pants like he’s exerted (even if his daily pre-workout asks more of his body than the whole damn obstacle course), and doesn’t demolish his competition so thoroughly as to be suspect. All the same, he’s awarded the honor of Gotham’s top volunteer cadet and asked to man the fire station with professional supervision two nights a week. 

Bruce insists he obliges them for a month or two until the new round of volunteers works its way into the spotlight. Tim gets very little say in the matter and begrudgingly relinquishes his weekends to playing foosball with a crotchety retiree and double checking the meters on oxygen tanks. A very boring way to pass the time, but plenty of R&R for a kid almost constantly recovering from bruising to his internal organs.

A series of arsons throughout Gotham targeting college dorms and off-campus apartments makes the entire Volunteer Cadet Debacle worthwhile. It takes Tim less than 15 minutes to distract his retired babysitter by streaming some crappy TLC reality TV for him while simultaneously hacking into the most up-to-date files that city officials have through the fire department. The investigators’ reports are helpful. Tim manages to stay on top of every case connected to the culprit by fishing through the department’s database.  

Though he wants to offer up an excuse and duck out to go poke around the most recent crime scene, Tim keeps his word. He emails Bruce a copy of the newest files he’s hacked, types a brief summation of their findings alongside his personal analysis, and slaps his laptop closed for the night.

“I’m gonna’ go run,” he says out of courtesy, pulling himself off of the battered sofa and toward the gym set up at the back of the building. 

Mr. Connely mumbles an acknowledgment, utterly engrossed in the staged drama unfolding before him.

Very,  _very_  boring way to pass the time… 

Tim just hits his third mile when the deafening interior sirens alert them to a fire in their district. Tim hops off the treadmill, momentarily unsure what to do as he attempts to pull his head out of the clouds and refocus on the protocols at hand.  

All four teams have already been deployed. A salaried firefighter is meant to be with them, should they (the volunteer staff) venture into the field. This is a conundrum. In his lack of ability to decide whether or not himself and Mr. Connely are expected to act as responders, Tim pulls up the alert system on his phone and checks the location of the emergency. 

Sorority house in Gotham University Campus South. Likely another strike for the arsonist. 

Likely that Bruce will be there in the next 5 minutes helping the overworked first responders handle it.

He’s got a spare uniform in his backpack. If he wanted, he could give Connely the slip and make it there just a hair after Batman.   

Before Tim can settle on his next steps, the aforementioned retiree decided for him. The burly ol’ South Sider bursts through the door of the gym and snarls, “Well, come the hell on, boy! We’ve got a fire to put out!”

“Right!” Tim calls, rushing after Mr. Connely and throwing on his gear the way that he’d been taught through the cadet program.

So much for ditching the geezer and getting access to the better fire retardants in the Robin suit…    


End file.
